Beyond the Ocean Blue 12/5/2021

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Today’s blog is going to seem rather random. And yes, I did chuckle a bit as I typed that because, let us be honest, we know that is a moniker that can be applied to the majority of my writing.  What I am going to talk about today is something I have definitely touched on before. I am hoping that I can bring some new points into the mix and give you a touch more insight into something that I am very, possibly irrationally, passionate about. I will be discussing something I have never personally experienced though I admit I do hope and pray that that fact changes as soon as possible. I have read articles and books and watched countless documentaries. I’m going to revisit today my very severe case of Anglophilia. Actually, it may even be beyond that because it isn’t just England that I love, it’s the whole United Kingdom really.  This might be a bit odd for an all-American Southern girl, but I have had this infatuation all my life and today I attempt to explain.  Maybe, today, I can make it seem to make a bit more sense.

I begin with two architectural concepts that warm the cockles of my heart. They are about as different as they can be, but both are so quintessentially British that it would be next to impossible for me not to love them.  First, the more obvious of the two would be things that are simply not an option in my homeland. That would be castles.  How could anyone possibly not love castles? I mean giant homes with centuries of history that for those of us who have lived our lives in America are the stuff of fairy tales only. The realization that the settings of those magical stories do in fact exist and in excess in Great Britain is something that still boggles my mind. To think most citizens of the kingdom can easily travel to such a locale! I cannot adequately describe what that does to my imagination. At the complete other end of the spectrum, we have thatched rooves. Yes, I adore a thatched roof. It can be just as ancient as a castle but instead of grandiose and luxurious it somehow presents itself and quaint and inviting. I cannot see a thatched roof home and not envision a warm hearth within with low ceilings and 16^th century beams. I know it’s not always that way, but I can’t help it. A thatched roof effortlessly paints pictures in my mind, and they are all endearing.

In mentioning old homes, be they stone with turrets or with tops covered in wheat straw, one of my strongest pulls to Britain is the history. We in America do not have centuries, nay, millennia of history all around us. Unless we look to long, long before our nation existed, we just don’t have anything like that here. We cannot go to a restaurant that has been serving since a time that there could have been jousts in the local square. As a lover of history, the immersion of centuries of antiquity to the point that it is nearly commonplace is so appealing to me I can hardly stand it. This ties in with another factor that is downright magical and that is the idea of royalty. Yes, I know we rebelled as a country to get away from it, but that was a special case of unfair treatment by a king who, well, had some issues. Clearly, when monarchy is done right it can be a perfectly respectable thing. But if I’m honest the governmental aspect of royalty really doesn’t interest me. The magnetism of the idea of aristocracy for me is probably too fantastical but I cannot help it. The figures in stories actually existing with robes and crowns in their palaces, it’s all too delightful.  And then the fact that these titles and thrones have been passed down in families for centuries just pull me in all the more. And it is my own history as well as I can trace my family back to all these places, so the appeal only grows as it becomes more personal.

I could even make the argument that there are things about the season at hand that they do in Britain that I just simply prefer. Now I do understand that this all may be a bit of a subjective angle to take but, I am just going to say it, I prefer the name Father Christmas than Santa Claus. That America decided to embrace the Dutch name for St. Nicholas rather than something more English has never made sense to me. To me, Father Christmas is a beloved old man with richly embroidered fur lined robes in elegant jewel tones. He possibly even has some intricately carved staff that he carries adding to his magical nature. When I think of Santa, the suit is bright artificial red. I try to think more of the Coca-Cola ad, but I just see nylon beards. I know, I know. That is probably ridiculous. Even at Christmas dinner, the British pull Christmas crackers which are a glorious combination of minimally dangerous handheld fireworks, cheesy jokes, paper hats and cheap toys. We, being Americans I suppose, just eat. I have personally embraced the cracker tradition wholeheartedly and think it definitely adds an element of charm that hopefully slightly offsets the, if I am honest, tad of gluttony.

The newest element of the beloved United Kingdom that has endeared itself to me, however, is it’s people.  I have never been there, but the British people that I have come to know in recent years have made me fall even more in love. They say that the American South is on top of its game when it comes to hospitality but these people, mainly one family of which I am particularly fond, have gone above and beyond to show kindness all the way from across the pond. They are so generous and thoughtful, and I admit I cannot wait until we are on the same soil be it here or there. I already knew I loved the land and the culture, and the people are only further confirming my affections.

So, we have established that I am a sucker for rolling green hills and sheep. Which by the way, we need more sheep in this country.  Who doesn’t love a fluff factor in their livestock? I love history be it in the form of a Tudor era home or the long handed down familial tiara. And while all these things were obvious and easy for me to fall for, the people are really what brought it all home. The far-off appeal now is made real in people I can talk to and interact with. Perhaps I cannot hug their neck and walk with them through some historic site, but they have shown me that the allure of their homeland is more than what meets the eye but that my affection is well founded because as we know, the heart of a place is it’s people. And in this case, I like to think I’ve judged well because Britain’s heart from what I know, is warm, welcoming and for that far away, surprisingly similar to home.